The Shadow and the Maiden
by Protoguy
Summary: A Gondorian Warrior is Witness to the death of the Witchking


The field was littered with bodies. I could see a face I recognized on the ground nearby, but my body was too tired and my mind too dulled with fatigue to understand that it was the man I exercised with just this morning. There was an axe in his shoulder, his eyes staring blankly up to the darkened sky.  
  
I was making my way back towards the city, slashing at any of the enemy that came within reach, my useless arm hanging limp at my side. The shield that had protected it, yet had still allowed the club to crack the bones within, was dropped to the ground in splinters. The Troll that had crushed it lay dead, a spear in his back. The Ranger who had dealt that blow had left too quickly for me to see who it was.  
  
Staggering through the carnage on the grass, I saw the great bearded King flying by on his white horse, his voice lifted high, rallying his troops. He was slashing his way through the Orcs like a hand through smoke, the foul creatures falling to the ground around him.  
  
I felt it again then. The terror. The unmanning fear that makes you throw yourself to the ground, insensible. This time I fought the fear and remained rooted to the spot. I couldn't move, but I didn't falter either.  
  
I saw it then. Always before it had been from a distance, a spec in the sky, wheeling over the field. But now I saw it closer. It was 30 feet away from me now, and the terror was a physical thing pushing me down.  
  
As it stooped down out of the sky, I saw its target. The King. I tried to yell, but my throat was closed. The winged horror bore down on the horse and the steed reared and fell on its side, pinning its rider. My heart leapt in my chest. A dart had pierced it. I wanted to run, to go to their aid, but my feet would not do as I bid.  
  
The foul bird-thing landed before the prone body of the King and his horse. Claiming his prize. A shadow sat on it's back, a crown on its invisible helm. This was the source of the fear, the rider, not the creature. Nazgûl. The tales of these creatures had haunted his childhood for as long as he could recall. If the stories he had heard had come anywhere close to the reality, he would have never slept as a boy.  
  
The beast craned its neck to feed on the King's steed, but stopped short of rending the flesh. What I saw then would be etched in my mind for the rest of my life. A warrior had stood to challenge the Wraith. Who was this, who could bear to stand before the terror, who could hope to injure or hinder this, the right hand of the Enemy. This golden light in the midst of darkness. Many of the King's house lay dead around the King. The warrior's horse had thrown him as well in it's terrified flight from the winged monster.  
  
Through the din of battle I could not hear, but the warrior had spoken to it in defiance, and the cold voice answered. I could not hear what it said, but felt the malice in the words. The soldier unsheathed his sword and stood between the King and the Nazgûl.  
  
Then I heard a sound I had not expected to hear that day. The warrior was laughing, a clear, beautiful sound that drove away the terror for a moment.  
  
And then the Rider removed his helm. The golden hair flew free and she laughed again and said, in a voice that he could easily hear, as if cloth had been removed from his ears.  
  
'But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.'  
  
The creature leapt into the air and bore back down on the woman in soldier's armor. I moved towards her, the effort making my vision waver. I fell to my knees. As the beast came down, she hewed upwards in a great arc and the head of the foul carrion bird crashed to the ground in front of me, it's blood and gore splashing my armor. The beast crashed to the ground, nearly crushing the woman in its ruin.  
  
From the crumpled remains of the winged horror, the Shadow King rose, a towering thing of fear. It raised its weapon and brought it crashing down on her. She raised her shield and blocked the blow, but, so great was the force, that her shield was riven and she was knocked to the ground. The Nazgûl raised it's weapon again to deal the final blow, when a sound tore the air and knocked the wind from my lungs. A scream it was, but a scream I had not heard in all my life. As if it held all of the voices of those who died in pain and torture in all the ages of the world. I fell forward onto my hands, struggling to stay aware.  
  
I looked to the Wraith and saw yet another marvel! A small boy had come behind and slashed the Nazgûl with a small sword. Even as the blow was dealt, I saw him swoon. But it was enough. The Nazgûl lurched forward, its stroke gone astray, smashing into the ground. As its momentum threw it forward, the maiden drove her sword at the crown. The sword shattered like glass, the crown was flung to the crown and the mantle and hauberk of the Wraith fell, empty at her feet.  
  
She pitched forward onto her face next to her King. Then I lost my senses. As my vision grew dark, the last thing I saw was the boy, standing in the newly woken sun. At his feet were the remains of the Nazgûl and his foul mount. The King and his white horse. The fair maiden in the warrior's armor. All went dark. 


End file.
